Forgoing Feathers

Pickles and glitter crunch. My eyes,
sanely soft (the glowing is tasteful
ly toxic) in the moon. Light falls
on salted kisses. Too tight[ly strung]
together. We are a visual meal.
Viscous and vital. And blatantly bold
in our organic alchemy. We shift
and shatter. Re-forming layers:in rock and bone. We break
boundaries with our fingers. And feeling
the aurorial edges (soft, what colors
lead the f[l]ight), we underestimate
only the flow. Of information.
And informal misogynistic mind
melds.